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city bird

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(no subject) [Sep. 21st, 2009|02:29 am]
city bird


See you if i see you around, sluts.

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(no subject) [Sep. 15th, 2009|03:02 am]
city bird

"I've got nothing, you should see me,
I smoke myself to sleep.
And blame postmodern things I can't relate,
Like summer camp and coastal states.
Like alcohol and coffee beans.
Dance floors and magazines [...]

I'm at a loss, you were my tangerine,
My pussycat, my trampoline.
Now all I get are wincing cheeks,
And dog problems, I signed a lease.
Thinking my heart belonged at 93rd and park.
Instead I broke a girl’s heart,
And flew back to Phoenix to finish the year as it started."

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(no subject) [Sep. 14th, 2009|05:03 am]
city bird
[music |acid house kings - do what you wanna do]

I guard my profile on facebook zealously through the privacy settings. But I love how much information I can get of one's life just from their status updates, which is particularly sweet when I'm stalking them online. I take pleasure from reading about your upper-class shopping sojourns to high-end joints, even though I can't afford even a pair of fred perry shoes myself (let's not even talk about roberto cavalli). It's a complete turn-on to receive notice of your literary indulgences and evidence of your scholarly abilities, but even more so when I find out that you had been partying the whole of last week. Oh, how I adore your slutty behaviour.
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(no subject) [Sep. 8th, 2009|01:33 am]
city bird
Today is Meat-Free Monday. It started okay. Now I really want a pizza, preferably with pepperoni and salami, to congratulate my crying. It has been too long - a chasm swallowing all feelings, leaving a cold rationality that cannot and does not know how to feel and react to any circumstance, rendering the self unable to function progressively in the most linear of ways. The chasm closed and opened again, like a happening of a mythic Chinese folk tale involving terrible sins, featuring a lack of filial piety, the inability to empathise with the prospect of death, and some torturous fire-licking level of Chinese hell.

I'm waiting for you to come online.
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(no subject) [Aug. 29th, 2009|04:47 am]
city bird
I know this is fucking juvenile (the stuff of 14 year olds' yesterday), but:

We're gonna save up for a whole fucking carton of OD, baby.
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(no subject) [Aug. 20th, 2009|01:22 am]
city bird
[music |Tokyo Police Club - Your English Is Good]

Last week, two postcards from France. Last night, a surprise mix tape mailed over from far away. Wait a minute mr postman, it's my turn to be Lord Byron!
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(no subject) [Aug. 17th, 2009|03:59 am]
city bird
I dreamt of Y., and how he walked away from me eventually. I couldn't call after him even though inwardly I was yelling at myself to, because it would be useless and I would be putting my pride down (which is inexcusable). When I awoke and texted H. to inform her sadly about this dream, she texted me simultaneously, informing me that she had bumped into Y. and he had asked after me. What telepathy, I exclaimed. No way, I'm a believer, she replied.

Still, you know, it's still useless. I miss him a lot, but this ain't goin' nowhere, and I want my gangster man to stick around and be jealous, not be some lame-ass excuse of a friend who ignores me but asks about my well-being separately. I'm sorry that we're from different worlds, because I really fucking miss him.

[added later] Revisited what I wrote about him before - good times, long ago. "I look at him, his look of concentration and focus on lighting the drag, and I want to retain the image in my mind. Not forever, but just for some time. He asked me if he could take me out for drinking. I said yes, and huddled up to myself. He said I wasn't a bad girl or wild child, just that I liked to try everything. I didn't know whether that was good or bad, in his books. We are from different worlds.

He tells me about his past, days that were dangerous as much as risky, soaked with blood and excuses that now seem silly. Lying down, staring at his side profile because he refuses to look at me and wants to be all straight and restrained in public, I listen carefully to and interrupt with questions, the stories about drugs, burning cars, slashing rivals, going to weddings and funerals because you had to honour your 'Brothers' and the "Boss", and other Bad Things. It is all very exciting, and what I really want to know."

I guess the story's all over.
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(no subject) [Aug. 15th, 2009|03:09 am]
city bird
Hello, I am Very Tired. I would like to order a milkshake, some fries and a side of sleep. Yes, I'm a regular customer, a pro-bono one, and I don't charge anyone for working. You're a fucking whinger so please transfer your damn foreign call somewhere else. Operator, are you a deux ex machina.

Hello, I am goddamn fucking tired and I would like a side of sleep and pills to kill.
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(no subject) [Jul. 30th, 2009|02:16 am]
city bird
I need a new obsession. My life is meaningless.
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(no subject) [Jul. 25th, 2009|04:30 am]
city bird
Winning Best Playwright, and, Best Overall Production (shared with my director and fabulous cast, fabulous in more than one way) for S+S 2009 was brilliant, of course. K declared us as the true underdogs and the email from the festival coordinator today with the percentages of votes and detailed results from each week, left us in no statistical doubt about that. We had the lowest percentage of audience and judges votes out of all the plays at the galas, but we emerged the slumdick millionaires. In any case, the prizes are absolutely non-monetary. Just free tickets to various plays, an Arts House membership (worth $88), free passes to all museums (which we already have by the way, thanks to most of us but one, having an undergrad status).

So that's the good bit. The life bit? It says to forget the small victories. Yes, this is a big victory in some ways, a debut performance sweeping the awards. But in the larger context of things, this is nothing but a small victory. We are still small fry, always liable to be fucked up by people higher in authority than us. I've done this arts thing for 4 years, but I can't always be proud of my accomplishments which are only deemed so due to my age (not even 21), and these are not particularly dazzling achievements.

Paul Arden advises never to forget our own ego, that so inspires us to focus on ourselves, but I do also prefer to forget the small victories.

The night after most of my cast and myself got drunk in various degrees (from being wasted to slut to high) and slurring about how unexpected and surreal our winning was, I went back to the arcade to work, serving benglets, little bengs. Then I was back at the esplanade, but while we were victors on stage two nights previously, I was then there dressed like a robber, all in black, crewing and huffing and puffing unglamorously and carting furniture to the studios and ironing clothes for actors. No one knows and cares about these small victories, honey. Most of the time, I just feel like I'm living some sort of a triple life, with mostly failures, loads of adventures, and a singular victory.

The worst thing is how I manage to keep a whole lot of pent-up frustration within myself, because emotional as I am, I do not physically rage outwardly, except verbally on the phone. Now that the holiday that I was so looking forward to has just been made impossible, and that dreaded email from a professor came, I just don't want to sleep anymore.

If I could stay awake, perhaps everything will just die like a monster aging away. But when I sleep, it rears up like a nightmare and I lie in bed immobile the next morning, dreading every ray of sunshine, every reminder that my heart pumps for nothing but my incompetence.

/add: So I just recall that I have a rehearsal in five hours, a casting reading. Do I want to do this? Yes. Do I want to go out? No.
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